Moon at Half Past Noon

Chapter 2: Liberation OF The Mean Streets

The elevator doors slid open with a groan. Matthu stumbled into the lobby’s stale fluorescence, a concrete throat that swallowed him whole before spitting him out. His Tiger slippers slapped the tiles in a frantic rhythm. Their steady beat cut through the monotonous hum of the great outdoors. He burst through the glass doors. Cool metal yielded to a wall of humid heat, thick with fumes and the sour tang of Mumbai air.

Borivali West uncoiled before him, a beast of jagged sun light and snarling sound. Its claws raking his skin as he bolted down the familiar curve of Shimpoli Road. The traffic zipped past, their engines snarling like wasps gone mad. Horns blared in a code he swore he’d unravel one day. Shreeji’s stall steamed at the corner. It was a beacon of hope for the gluttons. He’d raided it with cousins who’d howl at this chaos. The Bata showroom glowed smugly on his left, a friend he’d passed a hundred times. He stuck a hand inside his pockets and fingers clutched a 100 rupees note. He shrugged and returned to Shreeji. He bought a vada pav. He hoped, It would be enough for him until Ma and Puppa begged him to come back.

He was ready for the beast.

He walked casually and stuck to the lanes he knew. Chikuwadi’s narrow twist snaked right—Ravi’s wild swing had chipped its wall last monsoon. He swung his arms for a while, but then thurst them inside his pockets like Puppa always did. The paan stall near Link Road spat betel-stained red onto the pavement. He dodged it with a smirk. It was still reeking as ever. His breath puffed fast. Freedom surged through him. They’d see he didn’t need them—not Ma, not Puppa, not that fourteenth-floor trap. Shimpoli’s signal loomed. horns blared a chaotic hymn.

Drunk on diesel, autos weaved to thread the needle. Their precision was simply jaw dropping. Their fumes left a bitter burn in his throat. Hawkers shouted, “Hapoos le lo!” Their cries stabbed the haze, sharp as talons, while bangles clinked a frantic rhythm that rattled his skull. The lanes blurred—Link Road’s bustle swallowed him whole. Taxis and tempos churned muck into the air, a gritty mist he tasted on his tongue. Bata’s glow faded—Shimpoli’s curve slipped away—real places dissolved as the beast’s jaws yawned wider.

A cop car rolled, slowing along a side lane. A siren whined through the din—wee-oo wee-oo—tires hissing on wet asphalt like a snake stirring awake. Matthu froze mid-step. His heart kicked hard against his ribs—They’re here—Puppa sent ‘em!—imagining Tarini’s hysterical screams and Puppa’s disconsolate harangue directed at cops chasing his shadow. A sly grin tugged his lips—Good—let ‘em panic. He turned, expecting shouts—heard nothing but an irritating white noise.

“Hey!” he shouted. His bowling-pins of legs pumping and running after the patrol car. Tiger slippers spat an uncanny gunfire—slap, slap. He ran hard toward the crossing. “Wait, wait!” He wailed. A few heads turned, but people wearing them moved on. He tripped and fell hard. Thud! He landed into a puddle. Splash! Mud squelching cold and greedy, streaked his t-shirt. “Yuck!” One tiger ear flopping into the muck like a drowned hero, no roar left—”Oh heck!” He scrambled up, grumbling “Nobody fixes these roads, stupid cops, don’t care.” Limping on, dragged his broken slipper. “Papa’ll pay for this.”

The cop car veered at a turn, chasing some flicker down an alley. His insolence faded—disappointment pricked—Where are they…I’ll show ‘em. Shimpoli was gone. He knew home loomed thirteen floors up somewhere north. It was a vague pin on a map he couldn’t read. But the lanes twisted alien now. Unless someone hauled him back, he’d roam all day. The thought flitted by—Maybe? He shrugged it off—I’ve got this.

Kids darted through the crowd, quick as alley cats, chasing a cricket ball with yells that scraped the night raw. A shot sailed wide, skidding into a gutter. He shouted, “You call that a shot?” His voice cut through their cheers, loud and sharp, a laugh trailing—sly, edged with a taunt. Tarini’s “Kitni vaar” nagged at him for a heartbeat—he shook it off—I’d hit it cleaner.

Kites tangled overhead, strings snapping in the gusts. He sprinted after one—a red thread whipping free. His heart pounded, a fire scorching his chest. Dust kicked up; his slippers slapped wet stone—thwack thwack—the thrill seared through him. A wiry man in a bright kurta stepped from the haze. His gap-toothed grin flashed, too warm, too close—“Careful, hero. Sky’s not yours yet.” A bony hand clamped Matthu’s shoulder, heat creeping through his shirt. Matthu jerked free—Hands off!—his pulse raced—Who’s this creep?—torn between home’s pull and this wild unknown. I’ll catch it next time. He trudged slowly to nowhere.

A scruffy dog nosed his hand—fur matted, ribs jutting sharp. He knelt, fished the vada pav from his pocket—crusty, cold—and tossed it to the dirt. “Anything for you, my queen,” he muttered, voice soft. It nibbled—tail twitched—he lingered, watching its scrawny frame, eyes softening—Mango’d gulp this down—then stood, stomping on.Each step was heavy with a burden too heavy. His mind was a grimy haze. He trudged slowly to nowhere.

The signal at Link Road churned—a concrete knot of traffic, rickshaws buzzing below in yellow streaks. Matthu staggered to a wall—plaster cracked under his palms—and slid down, back pressed to its damp grit. The city’s pulse roared—horns tangled with shouts, asphalt throbbed—a beast too vast, swallowing his breath. Tears dripped off , cutting through the sweat streaking his face. This was meant to be fun—running wild, owning the streets—but hunger gnawed his gut, and his legs trembled too soon.

Scenarios flashed!

Cops snag me—Puppa’s ‘Game Over’—Ma’s ‘Kitni vaar!’ I’m lost ‘til dark, curled in some ditch.

The True Crimes scene played on loop. Shadows stuffed a man into a gunny sack. The drain gulped it down. That drain—black, stinking—right over there. He glanced at the ditch across the road—its maw gaped, waiting—My turn next? Ragged kids slouched nearby—bones sharp under dirt-smeared skin—begging coins from a rickshaw window. “Ek rupiya, bhai,” their voices cracked like dry earth. Matthu stared in disbelief. I have seen them before. Ma’d never let me. Puppa would not let me get late. He would never let me skip a day at school. Where are their folks? A flicker stirred. They’re stuck—no one cares. His chest tightened—Home’s loud, not this—then faded—Not my problem.

Two figures emerged through a mirage—slow, halting—shadows trudging toward the crossing. Their patched rags hung loose. It seemed bones jutted through their clothes. They were odd in his squint. What are they—ghosts? An old sack thumped between them—lumpy, worn, stitching frayed—Too heavy—too strange. The old man dropped it—thud. He paused—breath heaving—then hefted it again, a trembling lift. They stopped—started—stopped. Each halt a rasp for breath. They’re ancient and crumbling. Matthu’s gaze locked. Don’t come near—please don’t! They sank an arm’s length away. Her burqa fluttered. His rags clung—Too close. He turned his head away. What’s with them? Their frail shuffle a puzzle he couldn’t unravel.

I am Trapped!